


Because.

by darkavengerz (darkavenger)



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Character Death, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Suicidal Thoughts, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-12 13:51:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1187625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkavenger/pseuds/darkavengerz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wade's his own worst enemy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Because.

**Author's Note:**

> Please read the warnings, I don't want anyone reading this without knowing what they're getting into.

Wade knows he's done something wrong. He's just not sure _what_ precisely. From the way Peter's reacting though, it's something a whole hell of a lot worse than the time Peter caught him ogling the blonde twins who live down the hall and have a habit of sunning themselves naked on their balcony. That incident (that sole, _isolated_ incident, at least as far as Peter was aware) had led to one of their biggest fights; punches had been thrown, words said, angry sex was had. It all worked itself out.

Wade has the feeling that this going to take more than a good, old-fashioned brawl and the kind of sex that would leave bruises and bitemarks if Wade's healing factor didn't patch him up faster than Peter could mark him. Which is a shame, because that kind of fighting and fucking is fun. Peter's cute when he's angry, when he's flustered, when he's mad and when he's more turned on than he likes to admit by the violence. This kind of fighting on the other hand is no fun. In fact, it's the opposite of fun. Peter's not _not_ talking to Wade, but he's not _talking_ to him either. He's quiet and distant, withdrawn. It's not anger, it's a quiet sort of emotional withdrawal that Wade's not sure how to deal with it exactly, since Peter's giving him nothing to react with, to rebel against.

“You've left me with no choice,” he says softly, under his breath, as he watches Peter sit hunched on the stool at the breakfast bar, reading the newspaper. (The _newspaper_ _._ Like he needed to read that piece of garbage to know what was going on, he was _Spider-Man_ , he made the news.) Wade needs to do something to change things, something to shake things up, and he's not afraid to go to extreme lengths if that's what it takes.

Peter looks up, caution in his eyes at the sound of Wade talking to himself. Wade perks up as they make eye-contact, grinning and waving a little in his boy's direction. But Peter doesn't smile in acknowledgement, doesn't soften and thaw and beckon Wade over and kiss him tenderly and apologize for ignoring him ( _what, this is Wade's fantasy, it's allowed to be over the top_ ). Instead his eyes darken with some unknown emotion, face drawing taut with what looks like pain, but that can't be right, he hasn't been in a fight in days and Wade hasn't lost it enough that he's lashed out, so why does it seem like Peter's hurting?

Wade tries to put the pieces of the jigsaw together. As always, it's a real doozy of a problem, like one of those thousand piece puzzles without a picture on the box. And to complicate the issues, there are pieces missing, gaps in Wade's memory that try as he might, he cannot account for. See that's the real problem; it's not that Wade can't think of something he might have done to upset Peter, it's that he literally can't remember what he's done. It's not like his memory's ever been stellar, but this is more than his normal where'd-I-put-my-gun? moments, worse than the oops-I-left-the-oven-on times, this is how'd-this-blood-get-on-my-hands-and-why-is-there-dirt-on-my-feet? Will Graham full on fugue states.

**Except we're more of a Hannibal.**

“Ew, gross, I don't eat people!”

**We have fed people bits of us though.**

“That was one time,” Wade grumbles, glancing slyly over at Peter to see if he's paying him any attention. Peter doesn't like it when Wade talks to his boxes. Oh, he doesn't say so in so many words, but Wade can tell. Wade likes to tease him, ask him if it makes him jealous. It makes Peter uncomfortable, or sometimes embarrassed (when they're in public, when they're hanging with Petey's cool superhero friends, and Wade's just having a break from reality over in the corner). Peter's not looking angry today though. He's not looking at Wade at all. He's looking out the window, at the storm that's blowing into the city, the clouds rolling in overhead, at the rain that's beginning to fall from the sky and lash against the windows. His expression at that moment is so distant, Wade can't stand it, wants to scream Peter's name, demand that he look at him, that he pays attention, damn it. They might be in the same room, but Peter looks a million miles away.

Wade swears under his breath and walks over to Peter, wrapping his arms around his shoulders and pressing his face against Peter's neck, nuzzling roughly there, feeling Peter's stubble scrape across his skin and breathing in his aftershave. He feels Peter flinch, almost imperceptibly, but he feels it, and his heart shatters. Nothing can kill him though, even if he wishes it could, so he goes on breathing and clinging onto Peter like he's the only thing keeping him from drowning.

“What's up?” he whispers, aiming for nonchalant but falling short by a miserable amount. His voice cracks, and he hates himself for it, hates that he's so fucking broken. “C'mon Peter, you can't ignore me forever. I'm way too annoying for that, it's like my superpower... so, spare us all the pain and just tell me what I've done wrong.” 

Peter's silent, body tense and hard, refusing to relax into Wade's hold. When he finally speaks, it's with an odd, unfamiliar intonation. “What you've done wrong... do you honestly not know, Wade?”

Wade doesn't scare easy but he's shaking now. _What has he done?_ “I have no idea, I swear,” he says desperately. “Whatever it is, I'm sorry, okay?” 

Peter's shaking too, and Wade thinks he's crying at first, but then realises it's silent convulsions of laughter that are racking his body.

“Petey? You okay? Do I need to get the smelling salts? Because I don't think we have any, but we have cayenne pepper, if you wanna snort some of that? Petey?” Wade trails off uncertainly. He's not used to being the one who has to deal with hysterics.

 _Maybe I should slap him, they do that on TV._  

**Somehow, I don't think violence will improve this situation.**

Peter gradually calms, growing as still and stiff as stone. “You honestly don't know? Because I gotta say, it's hard to tell with you sometimes, Wade. It's not like I can trust you to be honest with me.”

That hurts like nothing else, because ordinary pain stops hurting after a while, but this is like needles under his skin, like swallowing broken glass, and his voice is surprisingly steady when he speaks. “I'm honest with you, Petey. I know... I know I joke around, but I love you. I wouldn't lie to you.”

Peter sounds almost as miserable as him when he answers. “Then that makes it worse.”

Swiftly, fluidly, Peter shrugs him off and stands, moving unsteadily back to stand with his back pressed against the window, the tumult of the storm a backdrop. “That makes it worse, because you didn't know what you were doing and I still can't forgive you.”

“What did I do?” Wade whispers, horrified. “Who did I _kill?”_ There's little Peter won't forgive, but that's line Wade can't cross. He doesn't remember killing, but that doesn't matter. He's not a killer. He's a weapon. It's his purpose. Killing doesn't require anything from him, not motive, not emotion, not even conscious thought. It's not killing that's the hardest part, not solving his problems with his swords. If he's killed unconsciously, it won't be the first time.

“No one,” Peter answers steadily. His eyes are blank, flat as he stares Wade down.

Wade feels a flash of relief despite everything. There's hope then. “All right! So, what's the big deal, huh? No one's died.”

“You _tried_ to kill me,” Peter says.

Wade tries to laugh. He feels sick. “Ha. How about we leave the sick jokes to the professionals, Petey, black humour isn't your style. But seriously, what did I do?”

Peter's not smiling. “I'm not joking, Wade.”

“What?” Wade's arms fall loosely to his sides, and he takes an automatic step away from Peter. _I would never hurt you, not seriously._ “No.”

**Oh yes.**

_No way, even when I'm out of my mind I wouldn't._

**Are you _sure_ about that?**

“Are you sure?” Wade repeats. “I mean, are you _sure_? There's all kinds of kooky but perfectly legitimate explanations for this – I mean, how many people do we know who can shapeshift? Off the top of my head I can think of at least three and -”

“No, Wade,” Peter says. He sounds tired, and sad, like he wants to be doing this as little as Wade wants him to. “It was definitely you, okay? Do you think I didn't think of that? Did you think I would say this before I'd ruled out any other possible explanation?” Peter's voice cracks, and he looks down, dropping Wade's gaze. “No. For whatever reason, you tried to kill me.”

Wade's legs give out and he falls with a thud to his knees. The burst of pain at the impact does nothing to clear his head. _No. No. NononoNONONONO -_

“Wade!” Peter's voice breaks through the screaming in Wade's head, and Wade realises with distant surprise that he's been screaming aloud.

He looks up, vision dim with tears, and a sort of grey haze that's descended on him, blackness creeping in at the edges of his vision. “I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean it, I love you -”

“I love you too,” Peter says, and he's crying too, kneeling on the floor beside Wade, hands outstretched as if he still wants to touch, to draw Wade closer.

For a moment Wade thinks about giving in and letting Peter hold him, but before he can cave, like a flash, he gets a vision of Peter dead in his arms, Peter's blood on his hands. “I think I'm gonna puke.”

“Wade?” Peter's voice is full of concern, but that just makes it worse. Wade scrambles backwards away from his concerned boyfriend, and runs down the hallway to the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him and sinking to his knees in front of the toilet as he retches, yanking his mask up just in time to avoid puking in it.

“Wade,” Peter's voice calls through the door. “Are you okay in there?”

Wade can't help giggling hysterically at that, leaning over the toilet with spittle dripping from his mouth as he stares at the remains of his breakfast. “Oh, I'm fine, Peter. Just apparently more homicidal and unstable than I thought, which, y'know, is a real achievement.”

“Wade...” Peter's voice sounds unhappy, even muffled as it is by the door.

**Look at that. Not only did you try to kill him, but you made him feel sorry for reminding you of the fact.**

Wade's laughter catches in his throat, choking him on it. He lets his head fall forward to rest against the cool porcelain of the toilet. _Feels like it's my life that's going down the crapper not those pancakes I had for breakfast._

“Wade,” Peter says again, and Wade wonders distantly why he hasn't just left. “Wade, let me in. We need to talk.”

“What's there to talk about, baby boy?” Wade says, eyes closed as he tries to keep his breathing even. “From where I'm sat there ain't much to talk about. I'll leave as soon as I can stand without puking, I promise. I'll go away and you'll never see me again.”

There's a thump from the other side of the door, as if the man on the other side has let himself slump against it. “I don't want to never see you again, though,” Peter whispers brokenly.

Every time Wade thinks he can't feel any worse, he's proved wrong. He tries to keep the heartache from his voice, doesn't want to make Peter feel any worse. “Me neither, but from where I'm sat there aren't any other options. Kinda past couple's counselling now.”

“I know,” Peter says, and there's a hesitancy in his tone. “I know, Wade. But I love you. I want you to get help.”

Wade's breathing stills. It feels like his heart's stopped for a second, and he becomes hyper aware of the icy-chill of the bathroom tiles he's kneeling on. “What kinda help are we talking about here?”

Peter's voice is scared but determined. “Psychological help. I know, I know it's not something you've ever been open to before, and I've always respected that – and maybe I shouldn't, maybe I should have pushed and made you. Maybe, maybe if I had, we wouldn't be here right now.”

Wade snarls, hand tightening on the rim of the toilet until it cracks. The surge of hatred and anger that washes over him scares him with its intensity.

**Maybe we do need some help.**

_Oh we need help all right, but since when has being institutionalised ever fixed anything?_

“I can't, Peter,” he says finally. “I can't go back there.”

There's a rattle as Peter tries the door handle. “Look, can you let me in and we talk about this? I get why you're scared, Wade, honestly I do, but I can't just let you round around when you're in this kind of state. It's not safe.”

“You can't make me,” Wade warns, slowly standing. His head's still spinning and there's a weird droning in his ears, but he can't stay sat. He can't let himself be taken in, not again.

Peter's intentions are pure, but that doesn't mean whoever he's asking for help is trustworthy. It's not like there are people who want to help Deadpool. Lock him up, sure, maybe prod around and try and figure out what makes him tick, but not help. After all, most people know better. There's no helping someone like him.

“C'mon Wade, let me in,” frustration leaks through into Peter's voice.

Wade shakes his head, a pointless gesture. “Nuh-uh, sweetheart. I'm not letting you send me in.”

The door-knob rattles again. “You don't have a choice, Wade.”

“Oh, there's always a choice,” Wade says hollowly, then he's moving swiftly, silently over to the window, scrambling out of just as the bathroom door slams open, Peter obviously giving up on Wade opening it.

“Wade -” Peter's framed in the doorway, concern etched onto his pretty face. Wade forces a grin and waves one-handedly, before letting go with his other hand and dropping.

“WADE!” Peter's scream rips through the air that's whistling past Wade's ears as he falls.

His ankles shatter instantly on impact, fibula and tibia bones snapping like uncooked spaghetti, and his knees crunch sickly as he sprawls forward onto them. The pain is blinding, but momentary, his healing factor kicking in and knitting bone and muscle together moments after he lands. Gritting, his teeth, he forces himself to get to his feet, which at that moment are still little more than bags of mushed up flesh, and limps away as quickly as he can. He won't have long before Spider-Man's after him.

If Wade was smart, he'd go underground, down into the sewers and the darkness where he belongs. New York is Peter's city, sure enough, but there are parts of it he's less familiar with. Still, smart's not something people often associate with Deadpool, and Wade figures why disappoint people by being more than they expect? Besides, right now he can't stand the thought of the darkness, the suffocating, claustrophobic silence, that being underground would involve. He needs to think.

He heads for the rooftop of a nearby apartment building, clambering up the fire escape and up window ledges until he's on the rooftop. It's dizzyingly, vertiginously high, and the wind nearly whips Wade off the roof as he stands. He laughs at that exuberantly, recklessly walking along the edge of the roof, arms outstretched as he wobbles perilously. It's not like falling could kill him.

**More's the pity.**

_What now? What's next on the itinerary? I mean, really, how the hell do we top this? Our life has always been one fucking disaster after another, but this, this is a real mess, even for us._

Wade doesn't have any answers.

The sky is a fractured mirror image of his mind as the lightning flashes, creating cracks in the sky that lets the blinding white light of nothingness pour through, burning the city skyline's silhouette black into his retinas. Thunder growls and roars like rage and hate, and it takes Wade a minute to realise the noise is not just in his mind. It's almost enough to drown the voices out. He sinks to the ground, dizzy and euphoric as the rain lashes his skin, flagellation that titillates his masochistic tendencies.

_Break-ups are always rough. Let's go watch The Notebook and eat Ben & Jerry's until we vomit._

**There are some things food can't fix.**

“Heresy,” Wade hisses, shaking his head.

**Face it. We just fucked up the one good thing in our life.**

“Well, what d'ya want me to do about it? Huh? Life goes on... and on and on and on, if you're me, which you are. I'm harder to destroy than a Nokia 3310.”

**There's always the option of actually getting help.**

Wade laughs hollowly. “That's never an option for us.”

**We could give it a try for Peter's sake.**

“Why are you trying to convince me, huh? You're a figment of my fragmented conscious, right?”

**Something like that.**

“So, if I actually got better, wouldn't that mean no more voices? No more boxes?”

**Damn. You've got a point. Never mind, stay crazy.**

“Hah! You'd like that!” Wade says, then quietens, thinking. He sits down, swinging his legs of the edge of the building and staring down at the pavement below. A couple of people are out, even in this weather, and one of them points up at him. It's too far away to see their expression, but it doesn't take a genius to work out what they think Wade's about to do. It's not an entirely baseless concern, but Wade's had enough of pointless gestures. He waves and gives a thumbs-up, hoping that convinces them that he's not about to practise base-jumping. The person waves back uncertainly, then walks on.

_Huh. Would you look at that? It's freaking pouring down, and they still stopped to check we weren't about to swan dive. Kinda thing that might give you faith in humanity, if you're into that._

“Maybe I will try Peter's way. I mean, what have I got to lose?”

**Us?**

“Yeah, well, way I see it, that's a bonus.”

“Wade?”

Wade turns around, unsurprised to find Peter standing behind him, shivering in the rain. He's still in civilian clothes, which means he's still hoping Wade will turn himself in willingly.

“Hey Petey, wanna sit?” Wade forces a smile, patting the ledge beside him. “Not that comfy, but you get a hell of a view.”

“I'm okay here,” Peter says stiffly, warily. 

**He doesn't trust us.**

_Gee, wonder why._

**You're going to trust him?**

“Looks like it,” Wade says aloud, getting to his feet and walking over to Peter. He shoots Peter a crooked grin. “Hey honey, sorry about the little freak-out. You know me, got a real phobia of commitment.”

“Does that mean you're still not going to give yourself up?” Peter says, sounding sad and disappointed, wet fringe falling forward into his eyes.

“Nah,” Wade grins fixedly. “I'll do it for you, Petey.”

The silence in his head that follows this declaration tells him he's made the right decision, even if he can feel the seething anger that floods through him as he says it, anger that is both alien and intimately his. Any misgivings he may have still had about Peter's intentions are dispelled as Peter flings himself forward, wrapping his arms desperately tight around Wade and whispering, “Thank you,” with such fervent honesty that Wade is humbled and ashamed he ever doubted him.

“I love you,” Wade says back, unable to stop himself, even though he doesn't deserve to say it, wrapping his own arms around Peter. “I love you.”

Peter makes an odd, choked-off noise, pained.

“I'm sorry, I know I don't deserve to say it,” Wade says, “and you don't have to say it back...”

“Wade -” Peter gasps, and there's something wrong, more wrong than the fact Peter's here with him. Wade pulls back a little, confused. Peter's staring up at him with wide, wet brown eyes, no, not staring at him, staring _through_ him, gaze going blank as he slumps in Wade's hold.

“Petey? Peter -” Wade sinks to the ground, still trying to work out what the hell's going on. Something red and liquid bubbles out of Peter's slightly open mouth and Wade stares at it in disbelief.

Peter's heavy and limp in his grasp now, gaze glassy. Wade sinks down to the rooftop, cradling him with exquisite care. He notices numbly his hands are stained with blood. _Where'd that come from?_

**Where does blood normally come from? C'mon, you of all people should be able to figure this out.**

“Oh.” Wade says softly. He gently turns Peter over, trying to ignore the floppy way his limbs fall. There's a blade buried in Peter's back. It's a familiar one. Part of a matching set of Wade's. “Why'd I do that?”

**Because you were right. Because we're hopeless. Because we can't be helped. Because we deserve to be alone.**

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [All of Todays](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1505534) by [Miss_L](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_L/pseuds/Miss_L)




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